


The Wedding Singer

by Ancalimë (Cymbidia)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Forgiveness, Fourth Age, Gen, Grandpa Maglor Attends Arwen And Aragorn's Wedding, Maglor The Minstrel, Songs of Power, The Royal Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbidia/pseuds/Ancalim%C3%AB
Summary: Maglor attends the wedding of Arwen and Aragorn, reminisces, sings, bids his foster-son farewell at Mithlond, and accidentally acquires the forgiveness of one (1) Ainu. Or, the story of how Maglor got his groove back.Written for Feanorian Week 2018, Day Two: Maglor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this out in a frenzy over two days. If it is structurally unsound or if I have left out a diacritic somewhere, feel free to yell at me.  
> I just have many, MANY feelings about Maglor, and this was a good opportunity to air them all out.
> 
> Written for Feanorian week 2018 Day Two: Maglor, for the prompts Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, and Redemption (kind of).

“Your new piece is a wonder, I am sure,” Faramir said patiently, “but I am afraid that even so I cannot rearrange the order of the performances.”

“But-” Daeron sputtered. “I play for our King! Surely the bridegroom’s entourage should provide the minstrel? For the first song at least, even if the Elves are great musicians and won’t be stopped by such a small thing as the customs of the land!”

“Daeron,” Faramir softened. “All in Gondor know of your skill in song and harp, my friend, and I would not deny you the honour. But Lord Elrond stands for our King as much as he stands for Lady Arwen. And more than that, his minstrel is dear to Lord Aragorn’s heart.”

Daeron’s stubborn frown softened a little at that. “Well, it can’t be helped,” he said.

Faramir laid a placating hand upon his shoulder. “The bride’s family shall provide the minstrel for the wedding, unconventional as it is,” he said firmly, “but in return, Lord Elrond’s bard has conceded that he shall not play at any of the feasts following. You shall have top billing for the whole of the week, Daeron.”

Daeron looked startled and pleased. “Well, I suppose that is acceptable,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll have my musicians make a list of appropriate wedding favourites, and I’ll brush up on the old Elvish standards. The Lay of Leithian, of course, and the Lay of Lúthien and Beren. Perhaps I shall throw in a few songs about Elros Tar-Minyatur, for Lord Elrond.” He hummed, and his eyes began to glaze over as he began to plan for seven long nights of feasting and merriment.

“Well, I shall leave you to it, Daeron,” Faramir said, knowing where he obviously was not needed, and continued down the hall to the store rooms that had been his destination before he had been accosted by a cross minstrel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor frets about the wedding. Elrond and Maglor talk, and are sad about Elros.

Elrond found Maglor muttering to a row of flowerpots.

“...the way he loved peeing into my herb patch, but only ever on the rosemary, was the very spitting image of baby Elros in his thirties. That was when I began to suspect that little Estel would amount to something worthy of his ancestor.”

Elrond cleared his throat, and Maglor jerked his head up with a start. “Elrond!” he said, looking dazed and bewildered. “I was just practicing my wedding speech.”

“Perhaps any stories featuring urination and childhood mischief should be kept to the private banquets,” Elrond suggested.

Maglor flinched. “Ah! Yes. That might be a good idea.” He looked down at the row of flowerpots standing in for an audience. “I used to know how to work a crowd,” he muttered. “I used to know how to speak to another living being without making an embarrassing nuisance of myself. Ah well.”

Elrond inched closer to his foster-father, and, giving him plenty of time to back away or refuse, slowly raised his arms and hugged Maglor. It was a tentative embrace, and Maglor was stiff and stunned for several long moments before the tension melted away and he wrapped his arms around Elrond.

“They grow up so fast,” Maglor said, his voice muffled in Elrond’s shoulder.

“My law-mother told me,” Elrond said with the air of grave wisdom that he used to declare inanities with as a small child, “that children always grow too fast and yet never grow fully in the eyes of their fretful parents.”

Maglor tightened his embrace. “You brother--” he said thickly. “You and-” He sighed. “I wish that we’d had more time with Elros. I wish we have more time with little Arwen. Oh, Elrond, my dear child, I only wish that I had more time with you.”

Elrond rested his head on his father’s frail shoulders. “Artanis will sail,” he said. “The ban of the Valar is lifted.”

“For her and hers,” Maglor said sadly, “not for Maglor son of Fëanor. And even then, the Ban may be lifted, but the Doom that was pronounced upon me will never lift.”

“Adar,” Elrond said helplessly. “ _Atya_.” There were tears on his face, and he hadn’t even realised he was crying.

“Oh, my dear Elrond,” Maglor said, stroking Elrond’s head the way he used to when Elrond and Elros would wake with simultaneous night terrors. Blood and steel had once ruled their dreams, and the span of white feathered wings flying away and leaving them behind.

“I used to hate her,” Elrond said, suddenly. “I hated that they left Elros and I behind. All my life, I have been left behind and cast aside. But now, I will soon be the one abandoning you.”

“I was lost long ago,” Maglor said gently. “You would not be abandoning me, onya, for was it not Maedhros and I who abandoned you and your brother all those years ago?”

“Abandonment can be mutual and repeated,” Elrond said, rather stubbornly.

Maglor smiled wanly. “Oh, don’t I know that well,” he murmured, rubbing at the scar on his palm. Even now he could not stray for too long from the shores, lest the siren call of his treasure grow strong enough to overpower his rational mind and make him dive back into the depths to retrieve it. “But still, I am already more happy than I have been for many decades, my son. Little Estel and little Arwen will be wed, and you and Elros will have your sundered lines rejoined at last, whether he wishes it or not. That stubborn boy! I do not begrudge him his choice, for I understand now what a gift it is to be able to end when you have no more vitality left within you, yet I wish he had not run off to his island and neglected to write his old father more than once every other season! Ah, it is no matter now, forgive me for my ramblings, Elrond.”

“I like listening to you ramble,” Elrond said, feeling like a helpless little boy again. Maglor smiled.

“I will watch over them,” Maglor said. “The line of Lúthien shall never fail, after all, and Maglor son of Fëanor shall never rest from his wanderings upon this Hither Shore until the world’s end. That would be a better use of my time than crying by the water and playing my sad songs at any rate, no matter what Ossë says when he comes to heckle.”

“Speaking of your songs,” Elrond said, wiping his eyes and pulling away, “I hope you have been brushing up on your wedding staples.”

“Brushing up?” Maglor laughed, the gloom lifting like a dispelled shadow once his music was mentioned. “I would not have come all this way to simply regale Estel and Arwen with tired old standards! I have been writing for this day for the past decade, my son. There is that unfortunate little ditty that Daeron never finished, the one about Tinúviel and Beren her smelly Second-born-in-distress, and everyone will be wanting to hear that, of course, on account of the parallels, but I polished it up and gave it a bit more flair than that droning ninny ever could. Lúthien this and Lúthien that! To hear him sing of it Beren was a little hussy who never bathed and kept throwing himself into danger for her attention. Well, I shan’t say that he wasn’t, but I rewrote the thing to be more favourable to Beren, so Estel won’t be too embarrassed when the comparisons start. And that’s just the mandatory recitation. My own compositions have been fine-tuned for the better part of a decade now, and I will not let them out of there without a lay of their own. Poetic parallels are all well and good, but Arwen and Estel deserve their own songs! There must be a song of our history, a song of Melian’s line, and a song of Eärendil and Elwing’s line, of Maglor’s line, and a song of Elrond and Elros’ lines! And then, once the tears for drowned Númenor and drowned Beleriand are over, there must be a song of Undómiel’s peerless beauty, and of Elessar’s healing hands. And it shall be told, of how Arwen orchestrated a heist to steal her father’s prized and peerless hoard of the last seven gems wrought by Fëanor that still linger upon Middle Earth to decorate the banner she made Estel, and of how Estel travelled all the way to Harad to acquire a supply of Arwen’s favourite rare pigments, but lost it all when he fell into the Bruinen upon botching his crossing and dyed the waters for several miles downstream.”

Maglor’s voice became softer and softer as he trailed off into mumbling. He plucked at the harp that sat as always in his lap, and soon enough he was staring off into the distance with only his fingers moving. His joyous mood eventually faded, and melancholy came upon him as he strummed softly songs of Fëanor’s house. Tears streaked down his face, but he took no notice as he stared sightlessly out to the distance. Elrond sat with him for a long while as he hummed the tunes he’d perfected.

Elrond had missed this the most. The most perfect crystalisation of the comfort and security of childhood would, for Elrond, be sitting by the fire and listening to Maglor hum and pluck at his harp absently as Maedhros dealt with his paperwork and Elros napped on the floor, despite the room being outfitted with a number of perfectly serviceable couches and chairs. Hearing the silver ringing of his father’s harp tugged at his heart, and he wept silently as he stared at Maglor, rapt, the first time that he had truly felt safe and at home in two ages of the world.

Maglor had allowed visits to the seaside cottage where he had set up, and he often wintered at Rivendell, but rarely did he play his harp there, except for recitations of his most famous work in the Hall of Fire when the audience was in the mood for laments. Given the diverse mix of elves who followed Elrond, Maglor’s welcome was always tenuous at best, and the Noldolantë sparked pain for all who heard it. Elrond had not heard Maglor play anything new in almost an Age, and it had been more than two since Maglor was last this unguarded in front of him.

After a long time, Maglor’s absent plucking trailed off into silence, but he did not snap out of his reverie. He rubbed at the scar on his hand, and his mouth worked silently as he looked out the window and towards the sea. Knowing that Maglor hated letting his son see him lose himself to the Oath, Elrond stood and silently crept away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morning of the wedding, Maglor causes a scene by being too good at singing, and receives much admiration.

The day dawned bright and cheery. The cocks crowed with vigour, and across the courtyard of the innermost circle of Minas Tirith, the white tree bloomed furiously and its blossoms glowed in answer to the morning’s radiance. The scent of the blossoms, lightly sweet and endlessly refreshing, permeated the city and floated out even across the Pelennor. Children laughed, and bells clanged. The city’s decorations had been completed before the sun’s rise, and when Arien peered down upon the land, she found that the stone city of the stone lords had suddenly burst into bloom. Flowers had sprung into blossom overnight, and the greenery that Legolas and his people had begun to install about the city had all experienced riotous growth. Songbirds that lived only in small populations in the city suddenly flocked in great numbers to the higher levels. And there, sitting by the white tree, was an elf with a harp, singing softly a song of blessing. The birds and the beasts of the city surrounded him, drawn by the power of his song, and the glow of the tree flared and flickered in time to his song. The stones themselves heaved and groaned as his song of protection was woven into their foundation. Overhead, Arien flared suddenly, as if in recognition.

Maglor looked up as he sang, and there, glowing in the morning sky outside of his scheduled course, the star of Eärendil the mariner. The tongue of his song was Valarin, to imbue his words with more power, but suddenly mischievous, he switched to Sindarin and called out the greeting that Frodo had told Elrond of. 

“Hail Eärendil the brightest of stars  
Over Middle-Earth unto us sent!”

Maglor smiled as he saw Eärendil’s star flare even brighter in recognition. Arien seemed to shake her head, and the rays of the sun flared in response to the silmaril-star.

“And the steadfast radiance of Arien  
Brighter than all other stars!”

Maglor sang, grinning, to the sun. Arien flared once more in approval, before settling in to her due course and brightness.

“Come now!” Maglor cried towards the sky as his fingers plucked out a complex melody on his harp while he paused in his singing. “Eärendil, my foster-son’s father! Will you not bless the renewal of your line! And you, my fair lady Arien, this was once your tower, Minas Arnor the tower of the sun! Will you not help me make it so once again, now that Middle Earth needs Guard Towers no longer?”

Without pausing for a reply, Maglor launched into the next stanza of his song. This song of blessing was not one of his carefully chiselled gems, chipped away with long years of careful craft, but a joyous wild thing that settled upon his tongue in the moment and was made all the more beautiful for its newness. He shifted form and style wildly, using whatever caught his fancy and suited his word best, and discarding it for something else at each new flash of inspiration.

As Maglor sang of the tower of the Sun, tower of stone and tower of light where dwelt the line of all the great houses of elves and men, the star and the son shone in the sky, flickering and pulsing to the rhythm of his song. The wind carried faint snatches of music to him, a soft twinkling song made of a low and tender baritone and a blazing song of pride and joy sung by a clear flawless contralto.

The echo of grace of the Silmaril was easy enough to bear, but the voice of an Ainur raised in song was no easy thing to match, yet Maglor sang on, his voice clear and unwavering, as he wove his endless love into blessings. 

“The cup that runneth over  
The foundations that shall never fail  
The light of the sun which will never cease  
To bless this line and this tower.

Though stone lords and stone cities  
Will one day crumbled into dust,  
May this house stand unravaged  
By the weathering of the years.

For the Line of Lúthien fails never  
Before the breaking of the world  
The Children of Idril Silver-foot  
ever proud and noble upon this shore.

The scions of Nimloth blossom ever  
Until the world has been remade  
The unsullied descendants of Fëanor  
Burn bright with flame uncorruptable."

Maglor sang with his face upturned towards the light, and he closed his eyes so as to not be blinded. By the time the last strains of his melody faded away into the echoing air and silence fell again upon the courtyard, it was well past dawn and halfway into the morning. Maglor rotated his neck to get the crick out of his neck, and opened his eyes.

The courtyard was full of all manner of living creatures. Elrond stood with Arwen and Aragorn and their retinues. The halflings were standing upon one of the stone benches for a better view. Guards and servants made up the innermost ring, those with business who had been passing by, but the back of the crowd that extended as far as the eye could see was made up of citizens from all over the city, some still drenched in sweat from having run all the way up to the topmost level to better hear the song. Birds perched upon branches and eaves and parapets, and cats and dogs slunk around the ankles of the people. Shadowfax, Mithrandir’s proud and noble horse, was looking at Maglor with a thoughtful and placid stare. Galadriel was also there, looking at Maglor with that inscrutable way of hers.

The silence sustained itself for several moments more, before the people of the city began cheering and clapping, and Faramir the Steward dove into action and dragged Estel away before the people of the city could become outraged at the bride and groom seeing each other this close to the wedding.

Maglor felt empty yet buoyant. His knees felt weak and he wasn’t sure he could stand, yet his voice and his fingers were still full of power and grace, and he felt that so long as he did not have to try to stand or move, he could keep singing and playing for a whole week more. 

A Man was staring at Maglor, more awed that most. He wore the livery of Aragorn’s house, and he carried a flute in his nerveless hands. 

“Maglor the Lark!” He breathed reverently, approaching Maglor on unsteady legs. There were tears streaming down his face and he looked like he had been tearing at his hair. “My lord! Oh, to hear a song by one the the great masters! And what a song it is!” He flung himself at Maglor’s feet. “O fair Elven lord! Prince of singers! King of bards! Won’t you take this humble and talentless would-be-songster as your student? Even a single lesson under your tutelage would be worth a thousand years apprenticed under the hacks at the music schools!”

Maglor inched back as the Man attached himself to the hem of Maglor’s robes and began to blubber. He turned to look helplessly at Faramir the steward, but he had already disappeared into a side door with his King. Maglor turned to Elrond, who was also busy ushering Arwen away into a different side door. Artanis laughed, and Maglor scowled at her. 

“Come now, Daeron,” said a gentle voice, and Maglor was glad to discover Frodo Nine-fingered coming to his aid. “You are hardly as pathetic as you are trying to seem! Embarrassing as it was for me, did your song of Nine-Fingered Frodo and the Ring Of Doom not move the whole host of men to tears that joyous day upon the fields of Cormallen? And your ballads of all the great doings of the war of the ring, are they not being sung around the world even as we speak? The memory of the evil defeated shall never fade, and so never shall your glorious songs be forgotten! Come now, Daeron, collect yourself, and allow me to give you a proper introduction.”

“Daeron?” Maglor said. “Well, just as he needs no introduction to me, I now need no introduction to him! Few are the bards who dare claim Daeron’s name, and fewer still are they who manage to find employment afterwards! That his fellows in the city have not lynched him for naming himself Daeron is reputation enough. Come now, Daeron the bard, let us retire to somewhere more private, so that I may ask you of the songs you shall sing for the wedding feasts.” Maglor didn’t have very much goodwill towards the man, who was red faced and snivelling, but he was eager to speak of music to another true musician, and the man’s fingers were calloused from long years of practice and the loud exclamations he made rang as clear as silver in his honeyed voice. Also, he was named Daeron. Maglor never passed up a chance to one-up his old rival, and taking a young upstart under his wings for a few lessons seemed just the right thing to do to spite Daeron-The-Elf. 

Daeron the man looked ecstatic. “My lord!” He cried. “What honour you do me!”

Maglor stood, and the spectators were laughing and tittering as Daeron took him by the arm and all but dragged him away indoors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, the part with the greeting to Earendil and Arien ripped off from Cynewulf's Crist:
> 
> "éala éarendel engla beorhtast  
> ofer middangeard monnum sended  
> ond soðfæsta sunnan leoma,  
> torht ofer tunglas"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding, and Maglor's recitation

Arwen was as radiant as her grandsire-the-star. A circlet set with gems was upon her head, and in her hair countless diamonds glittered. Her wedding dress had been woven by Artanis and the weavers of Lothlórien, beset with a thousand little enchantment of well-wish and blessing. She was full of grace, overflowing with light and majesty. What other maiden, elf or man, could carry the name of “Arwen”, royal maiden, as well as she? Through her all three clans of eleven kind were united, and the three houses of the high Edain also. The echo of her voice inherited the power of Lúthien and her mother the Maia Melian. She had never and would never see the Trees in bloom in Valinor unsullied, yet their light shone within her as surely as her grandfather's silmaril. She was Evenstar, the last bright memory of the bygone glories of the Eldar and Edain, and in her and her line their memory would live on. The line of Arwen Undómiel will never fail.

Maglor, standing beside Elrond with his harp in his hand, sobbed.

Little Arwen was all grown up now, and she had made Elros' choice. This day had been long in the coming for Aragorn, who was a man, and for Arwen, who was in love, but for Maglor, who had nagged his son for two ages of the world before he finally got married, it felt as if his grandchild was still barely a babe. And little Estel, who wasn't even a century old, was already a venerable king of men with streaks of silver in his hair.

Elrond was weeping too. Father and son leaned against each other and wept together their bittersweet tears.

Maglor could still remember the little seaside cave in which he'd dwelt for the whole of the Second Age of the sun. He had finally consented to leave that place and speak with Elrond when Elrond had shouted the news of his marriage to Maglor from atop a nearby hill, the closest Maglor ever allowed his son to approach. Those first days had been difficult, it had hurt to look upon his child and his soon to be law-daughter, Celebrían of the house of Finarfin.

But Maglor relearned how to speak, and how to cook for the wedding feast the traditional dishes his father had taught him that he and Maedhros had passed on to Elros and Elrond in Beleriand. The birth of Elrond’s children was in many ways a return to sanity for Maglor. When Arwen was born, he was overjoyed, and though he knew it was old Tatyar superstition, Maglor could not help think that the birth of an elleth boded well for the future. In the old Tatyar reckoning, sons were for war and daughters were for peace, and it had seemed to Maglor that the hurts of the past were finally beginning to heal. He fed and washed and rocked her, sang to her and cooked for her, crafted for her instruments that would have made Daeron weep with envy, and was her loyal friend and companion, keeping her company when he was at Rivendell and writing to her constantly when he wasn’t.

As for little Estel, many descendants of Elros did Elrond foster, but most of them were in their adolescent at least before arriving at Imladris, and to them Elrond was always Lord, or Uncle, or Foster-Father. Little Estel had lost his father when he was two, and to him Elrond was Atya, and therefore to him Maglor was his father’s father, twice removed by fostering yet as close and dear as blood.

And now, two of his precious grand children were all grown up and getting married.

The king and soon-to-be queen walked down the aisle together, to where their family and friends awaited them. Peregrin son of Paladin lead the honour guard, twelve in the front and twelve behind the couple. Women of the noble houses of Gondor and Rohan followed in Arwen’s train, lead by Éowyn who wore her sword over a green silk kirtle. Opposite her, Faramir carried a cushion upon which lay a crown and a ring. The youngest of Elrond’s household, a small elleth of twelve toddled in front of the royal couple and strewed flowers as she went.

As the procession approached the dais, Maglor strummed his harp and began to sing. It was in Westron, in concession to the customs of the land, and it was a song that some there had heard before. Arwen looked helplessly amused as Maglor began a recitation of the Lay of Lúthien and Beren, not the version that had been perfected by Bilbo Baggins, but the clumsy translation Aragorn had done for his studies in Westron when he was twelve or thirteen.

As the procession came upon the dais, they paused and stood still, listening with wonder. Maglor finished his recitation and grinned at Arwen and Aragorn. “Undómiel and Estel, here you are at last!” He said happily. “‘Twas no lesser undertaking than winning a Silmaril, though your father is certainly more reasonable than that- than Elu Thingol. May all your days be the very meaning of blessedness, and your line unbroken till the end of the world."

There were other words after that, from Artanis and her boytoy, and from Elrond, then from the various lords of the noble houses of Gondor and Rohan. Éomer of Rohan made a speech that made all the men and women weep, and fair Imrahil had enough of Mithrellas in him that his speech made even the elves shed a tear.

Once the speeches and well wishes were over, Aragorn and Arwen stood hand in hand and spoke their vows, and were blessed by Elrond who was officiating the wedding. Now truly married by both law and custom, they drank of the same cup - the cup that Elwing and Eärendil had drank out of at their wedding, and Dior and Nimloth, and Lúthien and Beren, and before them Melian and that idiot Elu Thingol. Melian had forged it, not of metal, but of song, and it gleamed golden as Aragorn and Arwen pressed it to their lips.

Then they were presented to the court as the King and Queen, and one and all stood and drank a toast to their Majesties. Then, a hush fell over the great hall as Maglor stood and began the recitation that might have been Daeron-the-man’s.

First was the solemn but abridged recitation of the Ainulindalë in Vanyarin as it was first told to the elves, and snatches of the Noldolantë in Maglor’s native Quenya, then in Sindarin some phrases of the Lay of Leithian, which Maglor only edited slightly. For flow, and better rhyming, you see, and absolutely not to spite Daeron. Some phrases of the lay of Eärendil followed. Then the climactic moments of the Akallabêth in high Adûnaic as the lords and ladies of Gondor wept. After the illustrious yet tragic histories came excerpts of songs of Arwen and Aragorn’s forebears, less dreary to hear. Once the preamble was over, Maglor struck up the song that he had been crafting for many decades, a song of the elfmaid of Imladris, the Evenstar and light of her fading people, a song of Estel the Dúnadan, the hope of his forgotten people, the Lay of Arwen and Aragorn, a song of their meeting, and of how Aragorn won her hand at last, and how they were wed in bliss.

There was not a dry eye in the whole of the great hall once Maglor had finished. He had played for the very gods themselves, once, before the Darkening, yet none of those recitations brought him half as much joy as playing for this motley mix of the various races of the world. Arwen’s face was shining, and Estel was grinning like a small lad. There were several small children, both elvish and mannish, who were squirming in their seats from the lengthy recital, but none of them had interrupted, so Maglor counted it a resounding success. As the applause and cheering went up across the hall and Maglor retreated to his place beside Elrond, he saw Aragorn raise Arwen’s hand to his lips and kiss it sweetly. Maglor smiled, and politely ate the mannish food and drank with some relief the sweet elvish wine. They would be happy, and that had to be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor picks up some strays, says farewell to Elrond at Mithlond, and sings a song for Ossë.

“Go away!” Maglor shouted. “You are all consummate city dwellers. Do you even know how to start a fire in the wilderness? I will not be responsible for you all going to your deaths.”

“But lord Maglor,” Daeron blubbered, as he was wont to do, “we cannot continue on as we were, calling ourselves great singers and artists of words, when we now know just how clumsy our craftsmanship really is. O prince of elves, will you not have pity upon us?”

Behind Daeron, his three apprentices, aged 12, 15 and 17 respectively, all looked sad and pathetic and teary-eyed.

“You are all wasted on singing,” Maglor said caustically. “You should have been actors instead.” But he was getting soft in his old age. “Go home and change into some sensible boots,” he said. “And for goodnessake at least take a jacket with you.”

Daeron and his bardlings scampered off and returned in less than two minutes with bulging packs and more sensible travelling costumes. Maglor realised with a sinking feeling that they had been well prepared beforehand.

“Fine,” Maglor said. “You may come with me to Mithlond, but I won’t be responsible for you, you hear?”

He started out with his tails in tow, setting off in the pale light before dawn to avoid awkward goodbyes.

 

* * *

 

 

The procession of Lord Elrond Peredhel reached Mithlond on a fine sunny morning. Olorin was there, and so was Artanis. Nodding off sleepily was good old Bilbo Baggins, and riding in to meet them was Frodo and Sam, and Merry and Pippin also.

Maglor had made his way down from his cave to see them one last time. He had shaken the gaggle of annoying Men who had insisted on following him, and even now were busy hammering away at some sort of “Music School” right outside Maglor’s cave. It was all very bewildering and he was glad to have some sensible elvish company for one last time.

“Elrond,” Maglor murmured, wrapping his arms around his dear foster-son and holding him close. “I shall miss you, my child, but I will rest easier knowing that you and Celebrían will be safe and happy in Golden Valinor.”

“Adar,” Elrond said, returning the embrace just as tightly. “Come with us. The ban is lifted, and you might keep watch over your Silmaril just as well upon the other shore.”

“It is my doom, Elrond,” Maglor reminded him, “but let us not dwell on that. Here are letters for you to take, and a new flute for Celebrían also.” Maglor paused, and looked at Elrond carefully. “Here,” Maglor said at last. “Long have I kept this, but I think it belongs with you now.” The signet ring was set with a small star of Fëanor. The ring had been amidst the ashes of what remained of Maglor’s father. Maedhros had it after, then gave it to Maglor as he stood at the mouth of a fiery chasm. Maglor had given it to Celebrimbor next, and received it back later still slick with Tyelpe’s blood. Gorthaur had not cared for any rings but the Rings of Power.

“Ada...” Elrond gazed at the ring that Maglor had pressed into his hand. “I know not what to say...” It was the signet ring of the head of the House of Fëanor.

“Say nothing, then. Do with it as you will.” Maglor kisses Elrond’s brow. “Go now, my son. I shall keep you hostage no longer. Know that I love you always. You are the best of my life.”

“Atya,” Elrond cried, and began to weep.

Later, when all the farewells had been spent, the last of the Grey Ships sailed from Mithlond. The time of elves on Middle Earth was over.

Maglor dipped his burnt hand into the waters of the harbour thoughtfully. “I know you find me unworthy,” he said, “but bless their voyage, for Fëanor and Eärendil’s sake.”

Something in his ever present awareness of the Silmaril he had cast away twitched, yet it was not the usual siren call that lead to him throwing himself bodily into the water.

“If you wanted to ask for a safe voyage, praying to my lord Ulmo or my lady Uinen would be a safer bet,” said a voice like the crashing of waves.

“I’m not in the mood for heckling, my lord Ossë,” Maglor replied.

“Play something good then,” Ossë said, and pooled into a physical form. He sat on the quay with his feet submerged in the water, his skin the colour of a gray storm and his hair a frothing white-blue monstrosity that swished liquidly and moved in time to the waves.

Maglor reckoned that his Mannish students could go another hour without his babysitting before they burned anything down, so he sat beside Ossë and tuned his harp. Then, having come to a decision, he began to sing.

“That is not the Noldolantë,” Ossë interrupted halfway through the first verse.

“No, it is not a lament,” Maglor agreed. “It is a history of the Noldor in Middle-Earth. Now that the last of the Noldor have returned over the sea, it is finally possible to compose a complete history.”

“Not the last,” Ossë said with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Well, the last that is permitted to leave,” Maglor said. Ossë did not interrupt him further, so Maglor resumed his song.

Ossë listened with his head cocked and his unfathomable blue eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Maglor. Once Maglor finished, he nodded. “Adequate,” he pronounced, which was high praise for one of the Ainur, especially given that his domain was of the sea, in which still echoed the first Great Music of creation. Maglor bowed sardonically from his sitting position.

“I’m not Námo,” Ossë said, “But it is the first time that I have been so moved by the music of one of the Children.”

Maglor was about to give some more sincere sign of his thanks, but Ossë turned into a mass of water and flowed down back into the sea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor deals with the mortality of some of his loved ones, and is swept out to sea.

“Eldarion will be fine, Arwen,” Maglor said soothingly. Arwen, who was mutely sewing beads onto her latest piece of embroidery, made a doubtful noise. Her face was covered in tears. “Idril and Anarien are with him. They’ll make sure he comes back safe.”

Arwen said nothing.

“Arwen, my most beloved granddaughter, please,” Maglor pleaded as Arwen picked up another handful of tiny beads.

Arwen paused as she turned to look at him. She stared at him with her glittering grey eyes for a long moment, then her face crumpled and she burst into tears once again. She threw the cloth and needles and beads onto her bedside table, and put her face into her hands.

Maglor picked up the blanket that she’d wrapped around herself, shook out all the beads, then tucked it back around her more securely. He also wrapped his arms around her. There were fine lines on her face now. She looked younger than a woman of her age should be, but older than any elleth ever would.

Arwen tucked her head into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “I’m moving back to grandmother’s” she mumbled. “As soon as Eldarion has been crowned. I can’t stand to be here without him.”

Maglor strokes her hair and clucked sympathetically. “I shall come with you,” he promised. She sighed, and suppressed another sob.

Helplessly, Maglor began to rock her and sing her her favourite childhood lullaby.

 

* * *

 

The leaves of Lothlórien had fallen, and the grass was carpeted with gold. Maglor sat numbly on a grassy knoll, his harp dangling in his hands. At his foot was all his worldly possessions. A chest of precious books and scrolls, a chest of precious keepsakes and heirlooms. Three harps, two flutes, and a mithril gilded lute. He had some changes of clothes also, and two cloaks and a raincoat. His weapons- sword, knives, bow and arrow, a shield that little princess Silmarien had made him. His life in his seaside cave had been ascetic, but Elrond had accumulated many possessions for Maglor in the third age, and when Maglor had removed himself to Minas Arnor on a semipermanent basis, Estel and Arwen were all too willing to shower him with material possessions, to say nothing of Maglor’s gaggle of students.

He was at a loss. He could always go back to his cave, of course, but it did not seem to suit him anymore. Eldarion and Anarien and Idril and Isilmë and Nimloth and Elenwë and Silmarien were all grown up. Even Silmarien, the baby, had two grand children. They loved and welcomed him, but they did not need him. And, if he were to stay by them, what then? It had almost killed him when Elros made his choice, and Estel and Arwen’s passing had crushed him enough he nearly went to Mithlond to beg for passage. He could not take any more deaths.

Maglor felt terribly empty. He supposed he could go bother the Moriquendi who would not sail, but he doubted he was welcome. And when had he stopped being accustomed to his solitary lifestyle anyway?

He supposed that this was his real punishment. The past two ages had merely been a reprieve, a chance to live in happiness while he could. All he saw stretching out before him were the endless ages of the world. He wondered how long it would take for him to fade. He was no Moriquendi, but one of the highest of the Eldar. While no Vanya, he had seen the light of the trees and beheld the dawn of Valinor in its golden glory. It would take many long years before he would become a whisper on the winds.

Heart filled with dread, Maglor began the long trudge back to Mithlond.

He took the long way, wandering the corners of middle earth and exploring all the places between Lórien and the Gray Havens. He saw Gimli and Legolas making ready to sail, and Thranduil Oropher’s son refusing to do the same. He visited Fangorn and his forest, and there played for them a song he had composed for the Entwives before they all went away.

Through Moria he went, visiting the folk of Durin back at last in their ancestral dwellings. Imladris was diminished yet surprisingly unchanged under the care of Elladan and Elrohir. There he tarried, and bade then farewell, for they too were making ready to set sail with the last of Elrond’s folk.

Through the Shire Maglor went also, stopping to admire Sam’s mallorn and greeting Elanor and her clan. Tom Bombadil was unchanged and gay as ever, and Goldberry still sang and danced amidst the river like a mirage out of the days before the Darkening.

Annúminas had been made anew, and the northern capital was finally full of laughter and light after so many centuries of ruin.

Then, Mithlond, the gray harbour. Maglor’s cave by the sea was a day and a half’s walk from the harbour city, and he stopped there first with the thought of selling his two horses.

He lead his horses to the quay, where he sat and took out his harp, thinking of playing a greeting for Ossë, who seemed to have forgiven him upon their last meeting.

However, as the first notes sounded upon his harp, Ossë reared out of the sea with a look of impatience on his face. “Oh, you’re finally here,” he said, irritated. “Well, Legolas Thranduilion and his dwarf already left yesterday. Didn’t that father of yours ever teach you the importance of punctuality?”

Maglor opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment a great wave reared up onto the quay, and Maglor and his two poor horses were swept away and never again seen upon Middle Earth.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cameo from Gimli and Legolas.

“You’re late, my lord Maglor,” said Legolas with a look of amusement. 

Maglor groaned, dazed. He squinted up and saw the mast and sails of a ship. There was hard wood under his body. The floor was swaying.

It was with a sinking sensation that Maglor realised that he was wet as a drowned rat. He sat up suddenly. “My harps!” He cried, outraged. “Where are my harps?”

A gigantic wave crashed upon the deck, and sluiced away to reveal Maglor’s horses, looking placid and unphased. The luggage they had been carrying were still strapped to their backs. Maglor uttered a cry of dismay and dove for his saddlebags to try rescue his instruments and books from the water. 

Thankfully the waterproofing measures Maglor had taken to transport his things had held out, but he cursed anyway as his horse shook its mane and drenched him with briny sea water. 

“Welcome aboard,” said Gimli the dwarf.

“Thanks,” said Maglor, and sneezed.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this was more my feverish ramblings than an actual fic, and im really sorry for that poetry interlude that didn't even RHYME. But I just had so many feelings.


End file.
